


A Return (Of Sorts)

by stillskies



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 13:11:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillskies/pseuds/stillskies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zevran returns to Vigil's Keep. Shennanigans ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Return (Of Sorts)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heeroluva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/gifts).



> So, I am incapable of writing these three as anything but friends. ^^;; Hopefully, you enjoy the hijinks even though this isn't exactly what you wanted. ♥

He comes to Vigil's Keep in the middle of winter, snow swirling around him and sticking to his lashes. His clothing is damp, and the moisture seeps into his boots, soaking the coarse wool stockings he procured from the body of a merchant who had been hassling a maiden in the Antiva City marketplace. The tips of his ears ache from the cold, and, by the time he can see the grey stone walls of the keep in the distance, Zevran is irritable.

It would have been wiser to stay in Amaranthine and travel in the morning, when there were horses available, but it has been some time since he stepped foot in Ferelden that he is eager to lay in a soft bed and be plied with food and drink he does not need to spend coin on, and there is no bed softer than one with a lover in it.

The guards at the gate stop him. "What is your purpose here, stranger?" the older guard demands, arrow knocked into the bow and pointed at his heart.

"I am here to ravish the Warden Commander," Zevran replies, giving the guards his most lascivious grin. He's pretty sure that the effect is somewhat diminished by his chattering teeth, but the younger guard blushes nonetheless. Exploiting weakness is a trait instilled in him, both by the Crows and by the whores, so he zeroes in on the young man and places a hand on his armor-clad forearm. "Surely you would not turn out his dear, dear lover? One he has not seen in so many cold, lonely months?"

The young man blinks. The older guard lowers his weapon slightly, suddenly unsure. Rumors of the Warden Commander of Ferelden are far reaching, and he is sure that these men have heard the whispers of the Commander's many lovers. A rumor which Zevran knows to be most assuredly false; he is not sure how Fereldans picture the Commander's journey during the Blight. The stories he has heard would make some of the whores who raised him blush; none of them seem to mention the long days trekking through fields and forests, up mountains and crumbling towers. In fact, if the stories were to be believed, the Warden Commander spent most of the Blight whoring and bathing in the tears of virgins until the Archdemon deigned to appear.

"Oh, let him in," a voice says, and Alistair appears at the gate. "He'll only keep making those googly eyes at you until you do." 

"Is that you, Alistair?" Zevran says with a grin. The guards instinctively move back to grant him access, and he passes through the gates and heads toward his old companion. "It would seem that you are still not king. Pity. I could help you with that."

Alistair rolls his eyes. "Thanks, but I think I'll pass."

He throws an arm around Alistair's shoulder and starts in the direction of shelter. "Ah, but you are not seeing the beauty of it," he argues. "As king, you could have all of the wenches you desired. Or men, if that is more to your tastes."

His companion laughs and disengages himself from Zevran's arm. "Anora is a fine ruler. A right bitch, but a fine ruler. Besides, I never wanted the throne; Eamon was the one who wanted me on it."

Zevran throws open the door to the Keep proper and steps inside. Stone walls are not known for their warmth, but the only air present is stale, and snow is not attaching itself to his person. It is infinitely better than the open. Alistair is watching him in amusement, and Zevran slants a glance his way. "I am at your service if you change your mind."

"I'll… keep that in mind," Alistair says. "Anyway, I'm sure that he'll want to see you, so we'll catch up in the morning." 

He is about to say something when Oghren appears. There is another man next to him with a tabby cat draped across his shoulders. There is an amused smile on the man's face. "Keep that flea-ridden beast out of my room, mage," Oghren growls.

"Now, now, Oghren," the man says, "I can't help it if Ser Pounce fancies foul-smelling things. And your room is so full of them."

"If I catch that beast in my room again, we'll have cat roast for dinner."

The cat meows and the man scratches the feline under its chin. "The big, mean dwarf isn't going to hurt you," he coos. "Who's a good kitty?"

"Bloody mages," Oghren mutters, "all got a screw loose, if you ask me."

"Morrigan seemed to be quite together," Zevran points out.

Oghren chuckles. "Now, that was a fine piece of woman," he says, acknowledging Zevran with a nod. "She was hot for me."

"If by hot you mean liable to set you on fire, then yes, I quite agree." 

"You're new," the man says once the cat settles back into its precarious resting position. 

Zevran flashes his most charming grin. "I am Zevran Arainai, formerly of the Antiva Crows." He finishes his introduction with a bow worthy of an Orlesian courtier. "At your service."

"I'm Anders," the man replies. "Formerly of the Circle Tower. And this," he continues, gesturing to the cat, "is Ser Pounce-a-lot. We call him Ser Pounce for short."

"It is a pleasure."

"What's a pleasure?" another voice says, and this is one Zevran knows well. He turns just in time to watch the Warden Commander enter. "Zevran."

"Commander." He rolls the title along his tongue and grins as the Warden rolls his eyes. There are more lines on his face, but they suit him, make him seem more formidable. His armor fits him well, unlike the hodgepodge of pieces he wore when they were travelling. 

"I didn't know you were here," the Commander says, and there is a hint of reproach in his voice that Zevran translates as surprise. "It's good to see you."

"So you know each other, then?" Anders says.

Zevran laughs.

*

"You know he's been worried," Alistair tells him over breakfast. "The last he heard from you was about some insane plan. Tell me, were you really planning on deposing the head of the Crows?"

"It would have been so easy," Zevran laments, spreading jam on a piece of bread. "But Nuncio swooped in at the last minute, stealing my rightful kill and placing blame at my feet."

"Yes, swooping is bad," he says with a roll of his eyes. "But I don't see the problem with this Nuncio killing the guy and giving you the credit."

"Ah," Anders joins in, "it's the principle of the thing. If you're going to be hunted, it should be for something you did, right?"

Zevran nods. "Exactly. I did not kill him, yet I am being hunted for the crime."

"But you were going to kill him," Alistair points out.

"That is beside the point."

Alistair blinks. "Right."

"So," Anders says. Before he can continue, Ser Pounce jumps onto the table and starts nibbling at Alistair's cheese. Alistair's eye begins to twitch, and Anders grins, leaving Ser Pounce to his newly claimed feast. "Anyway, does this mean that we're going to have to fight Crows and darkspawn?"

Zevran shrugs. "Probably, yes."

"That's new," Alistair says, staring at his half eaten cheese; Ser Pounce has now settled himself on Anders' napkin for a nap. "Oh, no, wait. We already did that."

*

Alistair is sent to Denerim; Zevran does not know all the details, but he knows it has something to do with the Queen and a darkspawn surge near the Cousland arling. He has only heard retellings of the argument between the Commander and Alistair, and he is pretty sure that neither drew their blades. Alistair would never raise his sword to Mahariel, and the Commander is too even-tempered to let an argument guide his hand.

Oghren is sent along to keep peace, although Zevran is sure that if peace must be brokered by the dwarf, all hope is already lost. Oghren is likely to lop off someone's arm for looking at him wrong; all the more likely to cause a scandal by hitting on the Queen herself. 

"Girl could use a bit of ol' Oghren in her, if you know what I mean," Oghren had said as they left. 

The Commander doesn't appear to be worried, but Zevran knows this has more to do with the backlash from Weisshaupt regarding the Architect rather than the Commander's utter confidence in Oghren's and Alistair's ability to keep from offending Queen Anora. 

*

"So," Anders sings as he enters the room. There is a large grin on his face that Zevran has learned over the course of the last month means the mage is up to no good. Usually, Zevran is included in the mage's shenanigans, having struck up a fast friendship his first full day in the keep. "I was in Amaranthine today, and heard the most interesting rumor."

"Was it a rumor of a whore who uses whips?" Zevran asks before taking a long drink of water. "Because, it if is, the rumor is false. She does not have a whip."

"I'll keep that in mind," Anders says in all seriousness. "But no, it's about Denerim."

Zevran grins. "About our good friends Alistair and Oghren, I hope?"

"One and the same," he replies before blinking. "Well, not literally, although can you imagine it? If they really were the same person?"

"I… think I would prefer not to," Zevran says.

"Suit yourself. Anyway, rumor has it that Alistair destroyed a newly erected statue of the Queen's father."

*

When Alistair returns, his mood would make the Archdemon quake. "Can you imagine?" Alistair says, eyes lit up in fury. "A statue of Loghain! That traitor murdered Cailan, started a civil war, and tried to kill us! And she erects a statue of him!"

Zevran hands him another mug of ale, which Alistair downs in a single draught. "Now, you see," Zevran says, taking a sip of his own mug, "this never would have happened if you were king." Alistair gives him a look, but Zevran takes it in stride, offering the other man a whimsical smile. "You know I speak nothing but the truth, my friend."

"Well, maybe I'll take you up on your offer," Alistair mutters darkly.

*

The Warden Commander is away when the Crows strike. Oghren rushes into the chamber, a maniacal grin on his face and blood on his armor. "What're you nug lickers waiting for?" he roars, lifting his axe, "we're being attacked! Get yer arses out there!"

Anders looks up from his book and sighs. "Murder and mayhem, woo."

"Weren't you the one who wanted them to attack?" Alistair says, grabbing his sword and heading towards the door. 

"But I was reading," he replies, grabbing his staff. "And I was just getting to the naughty parts."

"Now, now," Zevran says with a grin. "I am more than willing to help you with those naughty parts for so valiantly protecting my honor."

Anders grins. "Well, then, I suppose it's time to be heroic."

*

Nuncio is nowhere on the field that Zevran can see. "Typical," he remarks, rolling out of the way of a poorly-aimed dagger and kicking his assailant's feet from under him. "Sending underlings to do his dirty work." The assassin allows confusion to cloud his features for a second, but that is enough for Zevran to unsheathe his dagger and slit his throat. He cleans the blood on the corpse's tunic and grins. "Ah, how I do miss the old days."

"Reminisce later," Alistair yells, blocking an arrow with his shield and charging the archer. "Battle now."

"Of course, of course," he replies, ducking a punch and retaliating with an uppercut to the assassin's jaw. "I shall tell you of my days at the guild over a cup of piss-poor ale, my friend. We shall shed manly tears and braid each other's hair." Alistair glares and takes the head off of the assassin reloading his crossbow. "No? Too bad."

"I'll braid your hair," Anders says. He is completely untouched and Zevran shakes his head. "What? Oh, I get it – you want the manly Templar to braid your hair and not the ruggedly handsome mage with the winsome smile and loyal cat." A bolt of lightning crackles over Zevran's shoulder and a heavy thud sounds as a body hits the ground. "It's fine, you can tell me."

Zevran throws his dagger into the eye of the assassin who suddenly appears behind Anders and watches as he falls to the floor. "I am afraid you are too much for me, Anders. You deserve a Champion, not a lowly whoreson," he proclaims dramatically, pulling the dagger from the socket. He takes a minute to admire the dead man's shoes and decides he can get better ones.

"It's true, I am very good looking," Anders agrees.

"I miss Sten," Alistair says as Oghren takes out the last assassin. 

"Did ya see that?" Oghren exclaims, running up to them. "He was like, rawr! And I was like, che. And then he went down. Heh. I've still got it." And then Oghren's beard goes up in flames.

*

The Warden Commander's brow is pinched, but Zevran keeps smiling. Alistair, Anders, and Oghren are standing on either side of him, stiff and at attention, but Zevran is relaxed. He is no Warden – "Could you imagine me drinking the blood of darkspawn?" he had asked shortly after the Blight's end and Alistair had replied with "From the way you talk, I had assumed you'd drank worse" – and Mahariel doesn’t frighten him. Much.

"So," the Commander says, scrubbing a hand over his face, "let me get this straight: Alistair destroyed the statue of Loghain, Zevran is still being hunted by the Crows, which is why they attacked the Keep, Anders accidentally set Oghren's beard on fire, and Oghren tried to douse it with alcohol, burning not only his own beard off, but half of Wade's stall." He pauses to look at each one of them. "Did I get this all right?"

"In my defense," Anders adds, "I thought I saw a bee."

"In my beard?" Oghren growls. 

"There are so many other things stuck in there, why not a bee?"

"Because there wasn't a bee in my beard!"

"Well, how do you know?"

"Enough," Mahariel cuts in. "I can't deal with this right now. Go and help Varel with the bodies."

Zevran watches as they all file out, presumably to do as they're told; Zevran has spent enough time with Alistair and Oghren to know that they'll do exactly as they are commanded, but he is pretty sure that Anders will pull a disappearing act, only to reappear when the bodies need to be set on fire. Somehow, he can't picture Anders lugging around carcasses. 

He meets the Commander's eyes and grins. "Admit it: you missed me." Mahariel doesn't say anything and just shakes his head, which Zevran takes as agreement. "Whatever would you do without me?"

"Not have as many corpses in the courtyard?"

"Ah, but then you would be bored, my friend. But never let it be said that I cannot take a hint." He winks at the Commander and heads out the doors toward clean-up duty.

Anders and Alistair are waiting for him outside. He's barely stepped into the hall when Anders throws his arm around his shoulder and loudly whispers, "What happened?"

Alistair rolls his eyes but waits for Zevran's response. Zevran sighs dramatically. "A gentleman does not kiss and tell."

Neither man points out that Zevran is the least gentlemanly of the three of them, so when they arrive in the courtyard, Zevran graciously allows them first pick of looting the bodies.


End file.
